


Toxins

by iamgrape



Category: TwitchRP
Genre: /me falls down stairs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28809084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamgrape/pseuds/iamgrape
Summary: ery lads, tonight we deal with more stupid ass kerry shit that goes literally nowhere because I'm fuckin COPING. also rez has been awesome with their uploads so I figured I'd ride the lil TRP wave that's going. ok enjoy goodnight its 3 am kill meoh!! also. hugely inspired by an actual bit that happened in jerry vods. link to fingle/jerry convo here: https://youtu.be/njAG8Jn7wcA?t=4758
Relationships: Jerry the Breaker/Ken Tucky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Toxins

**Author's Note:**

> \+ just reread this (1.19.21) and sorry it's so rushed, jesus christ. super choppy too. sorry. might fix that later, probably won't.

Ken wasn't with them this time. Not today, not yesterday... Jerry noticed he's been taking more and more "breaks" as the months wear by. Not that Jerry cares. He really shouldn't. He just... he misses him. Ken. His smile, and his light-hearted jokes, and the way he somehow calmed Jerry down even when Fingle's screams couldn't bring him back down to earth. God, Jerry's heart softened just thinking about him. It was sickening, really, the amount he felt it, but that god damn country boy was the only thing on his mind nowadays. He felt so tender, so VULNERABLE, and that that, combined with the fact he trusted this son of a bitch with all his damn heart, gave him courage unlike he had never felt before. Not when storming PD, not when breaking Dan out of cuffs, hell not even when robbing the biggest bank in the city. The adrenaline rushed through his heart; he felt he could take on the WORLD, goddamnit. Why should his armor, his shell matter to him anymore? Those warm hazel eyes kinda melted something in him. Anyone who knew Jerry would have never fathomed such cheesy bullshit would ever happen to the bone-breaker himself, but it did. Years of walls, of built up trauma, all of which protecting Jerry from those he loved the most... all of those came crumbling down with one. Damn. Look. For Jerry, well, for Jerry it scared the absolute SHIT out of him. But oddly enough, at the same time it made him more courageous than he had ever felt.

So the fact that Fingle brought up Ken took Jerry very much by surprise. 

He was in the bank, gazing out the rain-streaked window at the paved concrete littered with trash and old, forgotten newspapers when it happened. When the police showed up, when the faintest hint of sirens in the distance were acutely picked up by Jerry's well-trained ears. When the roar of the engine grew nearer and nearer until the sudden screech of tires signaled that their opponent had arrived. Except this time, Jerry didn't really say anything about it. His stormy blue eyes clouded with concern as he furrowed his brow and gazed even more intensely at the pavement outside, feeling that something was truly... off for the first time in a while. He felt... off. Everything felt wrong, and he couldn't really place why. It just felt. It all FELT. It didn't feel... right, which was a new and rather unwelcome feeling to Jerry's one-track, obidient mind. He hardly ever thought twice about any action he dared to commit. This felt different, and Jerry didn't like it.

So as the police walked up to the bank, and Jerry was abruptly pulled out of his storm of thoughts, the usual bank process ensued. Zophie talked shit, and Sans was drilling in the back, stuffing his pockets with whatever loot would fit. Fingle would be waiting outside. And Jerry... well, Jerry just stared absent-mindedly at the poster on the wall, gloved thumb rubbing instinctively against the grip of his pistol as he awaited the familiar buzz of Fingle's message in his inbox.

His phone went off in his hand, startling him. Picking up the phone, Fingle's incoherent yelling went in one masked ear, out the other as the quiet man stared into space, pondering something just out of his reach. A lot of yelling today. Something about the police. How Jerry should've tried harder, something about the gasoline. Or was it ammo? Jerry couldn't really remember. He blinked, and slowly lowered the phone from the side of his head back down into his hand. He could still hear the faint frustrated complaining from the other side of the line. Almost absentmindedly, his padded thumb glided along the surface of the phone and hovered above that little red button.

Click.

He stuffed the phone into his back pocket, took a breath, and rested his hand on his pistol, slowly sliding it out of its holster. Jerry exhaled. He was angry. Or at least, he thought he was angry. He was going to kill some officers tonight.

The final words were exchanged between crime and order as Sans made a break for it, pushing open the bank doors with surprising force for such a lightweight man and zipping down the alleyway as quickly as he could, Zophie tailing close behind him. 

Jerry stepped out after them, solid boots stomping on the wet pavement as he prepared to take off after his companions. His mind raced, however, and as if in a trance, the quiet man swung around, feet planted firmly in front of the bank. His head buzzed. He felt a bit too much today, something empty whispered to him as his soft blue eyes hardened with the weight of what only the bone-breaker knew to carry.

The next thing the officer in pursuit knew, a gun was aimed directly at his forehead, muzzle pressed firmly against the front of his skull. 

Jerry didn't hesitate.

Click.

Click, click, click. Fuck. It was like someone shook Jerry awake, he was out of the daze in an instant. Fuck. His mind buzzed. His gun-- it was out of ammo, his godamn gun was out of ammo-- tasers fired, and jolts of electricity surged through his gargantuan body as he fell convulsing to the ground, his head colliding with something along the way. His trembling body was shackled as quickly as his thoughts caught up with him. His heart raced, his head throbbed. He was being caged. His gun had been kicked across the pavement, rain pattering on its plastic grip. There was blood on the concrete, whose it was he couldn't tell. His breathing grew uneasy, he grew lightheaded. He had fucked up. His heart. His heart was beating so fast, it was flying, it was floating, it was--

His world went dark.

________________ 

The light hurt. It was bright. Fuck, did he fall asleep during his night shift? He was supposed to stay awake--

Jerry's eyes flew open. 

The man sat bolt upright, frightening the nurse next to him so badly she fell out of her seat. Not that he could go far, Jerry realized-- his arms were shackled to the each side of the bed. 

Like an animal. 

He laid back down, eyes scanning the room for something, anything to get him out of here. His chest heaved. He didn't know where he was, or what they had done--

Oh god. What had they done. 

His hair. His hair. The air. It was cold on his scalp. He was sweating, and oh god, oh GOD, there was nothing on his head. What happened to his head. His hair. His hair was exposed. His scalp, it was cold, and it-- it tingled under the unfamiliar contact of a pillow. It tingled. What did they do, what did they do what did they--

"Jerry."

He must've jumped just as badly as he had when he first awoke, because Forester's jaw clenched with the anticipation of a threat. Jerry's panicked blue eyes darted from the cop's stoic face, down to his shoulder, to his hand, tightened around his holstered pistol. Ready to use it if he had to.

He trembled, arms shaking so violently under him he felt like he might fall. "F-forester..."

"Jerry, listen to me. You hit your head real hard on the railing, and we were worried you were hurt. You're okay."

The armored man was trying his hardest not to throw up. He felt sick.

"F-forester, what did they-- they do..."

"I told them to take off your balaclava," the ginger officer said through anxiously-gritted teeth, eyeing Jerry with a concerned eye. "I directly ordered them not to touch another part of your body unless you were seriously injured. You're okay now."

Jerry drew a shaky breath, earning himself a silent but evidently relived exhale from Forester. 

"O-okay."

His muscles relaxed, if just a little. Jerry tried to ease more into the hospital bed, a little calmer now that he knew where he was, but still evidently very tense and slightly shaking from head to toe. He was on high alert, and Forester could see this. The usually emotionless and intimidating criminal was visibily afraid. He was vulnerable, and he was scared.

Forester watched his face with careful consideration, observing the pale blue eyes darting from exit to exit in the room. At one point, the two even caught eye contact, at least for a split second. The first eye contact between them in a while, Forester thought, as he watched Jerry pull himself out of his panicked state and gather himself into a something a bit more presentable. Forester wondered if this was how he normally acted. When he wasn't robbing banks, or getting into car chases, or starting gang wars. When those eyes became Jerry Jones's.

Forester busied himself with what little paperwork he had, trying to give the man some time to recollect. He took a breath.

"According to the doctors, you sustained minor injuries. Do you want to--"

"Take me to prison."

Forester figured as much. He sighed. That man needed someone, but there was nothing LSPD could do for him if the subject refused help. With one final, tired look at Jerry, Deputy Forester put his papers down and started to radio in his status.

"... to dispatch, 10-76 with one 10-96 en route to Bolingbroke State Penitentiary.

"...Yup. 10-4."

________________ 

The bright sun beat down on the balaclava covering Jerry's matted hair in the prison yard. The hospital had returned his hat to him upon Forester's request... why that man was so nice to Jerry he'd never know, seeing as he almost blew the head off a fellow officer not two hours ago. Regardless, Jerry took what he got, no questions asked. 

Sitting down at one of the empty prison yard tables, Jerry unlocked his cell phone slowly, wiping off his dusty gloved fingers on the phone case. How small the device looked in his enormous gloved hands. Checking his notifications with a sharp inhale of dread, he had just begun to read off the various pings and "where are you's" when his phone started to violently vibrate with the sound of an incoming call. He didn't know if he was ready for this. Taking a shaky breath, Jerry swiped to accept.

He knew Fingle was drunk today. Jerry didn't know what the old man had had to drink this time, but whatever it was, it was in excessive amounts; the car reeked of booze long before the day's crime streak had even started, and the bags under Fingle's tired eyes this morning hinted that the alcohol high had gone well into the night prior. Fingle often went into moods like this, Jerry knew, hiding his demons in the poison he called liquor. It hurt, Jerry could tell that much. The stench in the elderly man's breath wasn't the only thing tarnishing his vibrantly unique character. 

As blatantly short-tempered as the old man usually was, drunkenness only made things worse for everyone involved. Jerry knew this better than anyone, as he had been the old man's emotional punching bag for years on end. He knew his games.

But Jerry was not expecting the wave of frustration, of rage, of sheer 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 that swept through that one word. That seeped under his greeting as quickly as Jerry knew he had messed up. Oh, how Jerry had messed up. 

"JERRY."

He swallowed. "Hey, Fingle. What's up?"

"JERRY." He heard the inhale of a breath and just barely caught an intoxicated hiccup through the phone. Fingle was evidently still drinking. "...what HAPPENED out there, Jerry."

"I-"

The man on the other line broke down.

"JERRY," Fingle's voice broke with the uttering of his name. Something was up. "WHY do you have a problem TRUSTING me, Jerry... 

Silence.

"...an-and letting me past your WALLS?"

Whatever Jerry was expecting, it wasn't that.

"Uh-"

"NO. JERRY..." His voice broke again. He hiccuped. "You seem DISTANT, Jerry. You- you-"

"Fingle, I-"

"NO. Jerry, you've- you've CHANGED."

Jerry's brow furrowed. Whatever tactic this was, he wasn't familiar with it. 

"Ever since you- ever since you met that BITCH. You started talking with HIM. You think I don't NOTICE, Jerry? I see you up there, I see you-"

"Fingle," Jerry said, a little bit firmer this time. His growing concern was masked with a hint of anger. "You aren't making sense. Tell me what's-"

"You KNOW what's going on." There was silence on both sides of the line. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, Jerry thought, 𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘐𝘋𝘕'𝘛 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯. Did he do something wrong? Should he have checked if his gun was loaded before the robbery? Maybe he left forget some loot at the bank, maybe Fingle was mad about the bandages that were confiscated-- his mind was racing. What the fuck happened, what was wrong?

"Ken."

Jerry blinked, startled. Was Ken even in town today? "K-Ken? W-what's wrong with Ken, did something happen, is he hurt--"

"Jerry."

Jerry was at a loss for words. His mind raced with a thousand concepts, but his mouth couldn't form one. Ken, Ken-- he didn't-- what? but--

Fingle started on the other side. "I'm- I'm SICK of it Jerry, I know what's going on with... no, not with my Jerry. My Jerry. He- he's taking you. From me. And I'm-"

His voice broke, and there was a pause. Fingle had never acted this way before. 

"YOU. Are being SELFISH, Jerry. You know that? You're using me. Are you-- are YOU fighting me too now? Is this what it is?

"I'm a BROKEN MAN, Jerry, and now you're just adding onto it."

Jerry inhaled, at a complete and total loss. He didn't know what to say. All he knew was that he was angry. He felt like his throat was closing up, his chest tight. Like a rubber band pulled too far, to the point that it turned white and would snap under the slightest touch. His gloved fingers were grapsed around the picnic table so tightly that the metal almost bent under his pressure, but he felt that he couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The blood was pounding in his ears. Jerry couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't--

Exhale. 

The silence was enough of an answer for the old man. A smash on the other side of the line, and the call hung up. 

The tears stung.


End file.
